


figured it out from black and white

by thisismy_design (thisismydesignn)



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Multi, OT3, Royalty, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:14:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1287427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismy_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Married life seems to be missing one important piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	figured it out from black and white

**Author's Note:**

> This is so cheesy and ridiculous but I'd gotten requests for more OT3 fic so I figured I'd try to deliver!
> 
> Sort of fix-it fic (though I'm actually quite pleased with the way _The Consummation_ turned out). This way, everyone's happy (I hope!).
> 
> Title from One Direction's _You and I_.

It seems fitting, almost, that their consummation takes place under Bash’s gaze, Francis’ eye shadowed with a bruise from his fist. Bash is everything about them that hurts, every ounce of infidelity and _“convenience”_ that they spat at one another, words they never meant that caused infinite pain nonetheless.  
  
Yet here they are, wedded, making love as though it’s the first time all over again. They nearly forget their audience as Francis pushes into Mary, as their kisses grow desperate and his thrusts erratic, but still they can feel Bash’s eyes on them, burning a hole through everything that will never be his.  
  


* * *

  
“Well, there it is,” Bash had said. “The truth between us last.”  
  
It was anything but.  
  


* * *

  
They first realize it at a feast soon after the wedding— the days melting into one, the bliss and monotony of married life settling between them before either even begins to notice. But Mary looks troubled, and Francis’s fingers tremble as he reaches over to take her hand.  
  
“What’s the matter?” he asks, quiet, concerned, terrified he already he knows the answer, and sure enough— “I miss Bash,” but what scares him even more is the realization that he does too.  
  


* * *

  
“I love Francis more,” she’d told Bash, and she _does,_ but they both love Bash, or did, once.  
  
She murmurs it to him in the throes of passion first, urging him to imagine, “His hands on me— his lips on you— just think of how he would _taste,_ ” and Francis wants nothing more than to pull away but instead he presses closer, comes harder than ever before and neither of them quite know what to say, fingers, legs entwined in an unsettled contentment they’re not ready to interrupt with words.  
  
The next time she mentions it before they’ve even undressed, and he kisses her to shut her up because he can’t bear to hear any more— because he _wants_ or because he does not, he cannot say, and that frightens him more than anything.  
  


* * *

  
Then Bash arrives back at court, and everything changes.   
  


* * *

  
“You entitled son of a bitch,” Bash had spat, angry and rightfully so. “You…you’re nothing,” Francis had told him in turn, venom in his tone, but now Bash is _everything,_ poisoning the water between Mary and himself simply by existing and, well, _that_ — that won’t do.  
  
So Francis invites him to their bedchambers, because he can’t see any other way out of this mess they’ve found themselves in. He plans on leaving them alone, letting them fulfill their desire to their hearts’ content— once, and never again— but when Mary reaches for him, murmuring, “stay,” he can hardly say no.  
  
(With her lips on his, he hardly wants to.)  
  
What he’s not expecting is her hand on his back, urging him forward, closer to Bash— but with his brother’s touch upon his skin, everything else turns to static.  
  
He kisses Bash and it’s like coming home, like the last fifteen years haven’t been lost, just hidden away somewhere so dark and deep that neither of them could see the way out. Leave it to Mary to pull them back together— her presence may have wrenched them apart, but when they’re pressed against one another between the bedcovers, it’s as though nothing matters but murmured curses, praise, limbs tangled together until they’re no longer sure where each of them ends and the others begin.  
  
“I love you,” Mary murmurs against Francis’s lips, and even as he watches her come apart under Bash’s touch he knows it’s true; he kisses his way down Bash’s chest and imagines saying the words back, but she knows— her eyes shine down at him, fingers twisted in his hair, and he _knows_ she knows.  
  
From fighting with wooden swords to fucking with Mary only inches away, hand between her legs, Francis and Bash have always communicated best without words. Even if they never say “I’m sorry,” each grin between stolen kisses is apology enough, and the attention they lavish on Mary is no less than she deserves.  
  
Because the queen of Scotland deserves the world, as far as they’re concerned, and Francis and Bash will give it to her any way they see fit— a ring on a silver platter, or a thousand kisses in a marriage bed the world will never see.  
  


* * *

  
Nothing’s perfect between them, old wounds arising in the form of bruises more often than they’d care to admit. Despite this, Francis and Bash are brothers once again, or perhaps their connection is something deeper than the blood that runs in their veins. Mary loves them both, and “more” no longer matters. Her fingers lace with Francis’s and she wishes for Bash to appear beside them because they are _one_ , stronger together, and Bash is no longer their pain, but rather their strength.  
  
“Nothing in common but our father, really,” he’d told Mary a lifetime ago: their father, and now her. Trapped between the love of two beautiful boys, the power of two countries, it’s almost too much to handle, but Mary’s never been one to back down from a challenge.  
  
 _Long may you reign,_ Bash tells her, tells them, though he could tear them down with a single word; still he remains content with all the love they can offer, every kiss a piece of their souls, and it’s not long before he realizes that _this—_ Francis’ arm curled around his waist, Mary’s eyes opening slowly to the morning sun— this was everything he’d desired all along.


End file.
